


After the Fire

by Miriam_Heddy



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 15:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4631226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold cleared his throat and forced out the words before he could change his mind. "I feel I should clarify that my lack of social niceties when you emerged from the trunk was not an accurate reflection of my lack of interest."</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fire

Harold cleared his throat and forced out the words before he could change his mind. "I feel I should clarify that my lack of social niceties when you emerged from the trunk was not an accurate reflection of my lack of interest."

"So you're saying you lack interest in my welfare?" 

"I--no. You misunderstand. I--" 

"Misspoke." 

"Perhaps. But I meant to say that--" 

"You apologize for being rude?" 

Harold Finch huffed out a breath and shook his head. He'd meant no such thing. He hadn't been rude, exactly. Miss Manners didn't cover how to respond when your partner pulled off another impressively narrow escape from certain death--unconscious and in the trunk of a burning car with only a small flashlight and a great deal of luck. 

John Reese smiled slowly, narrowly avoiding smugness by virtue of his eyes, which were serious and focused on Harold's, holding his gaze in a way that made Harold glad for the protection of glasses. 

After a moment of indecision, Harold offered back a small smile of his own, along with a slight bow of the head in acknowledgment that Mister Reese had what he wanted. Then he forced himself to look away from Mister Reese, shifting his eyes to the glass board, though it was empty and there was nothing to see but the fracture that marred its surface. 

Now there was a metaphor, should he need one. Did Mister Reese appreciate metaphors? Or would he mock them for their imprecision? Mister Reese laid things bare, insofar as he was able to while keeping his own council. 

And Mister Reese had won that one apology--had wrung it out of him when he'd only meant to say that they had no time for 'How are yous,' and that if he worried over Mister Reese every time he set off with a gun in hand, he wouldn't be able to do the work necessary to provide Mister Reese with backup. He'd meant to say that it was John who owed him an apology for disappearing--for disconnecting the only means by which Harold could track him--only to reappear like a Phoenix, brushing char from his suit and cracking wise to the Lieutenant, who was able to be there when Harold could not.

 

But no--he hadn't meant to say any of that. Not really. Such sentiments were unspeakable. 

Mister Reese--John--had come closer and now had a hand on Harold's shoulder, applying just enough pressure to break through Harold's thoughts. Harold considered turning around, but he felt the heat of him at his back and, as the sun dipped behind a building, the glass board offered up a reflection of the two of them. Harold watched as John leaned his head forward and Harold drew in a breath as John's lips faintly brushed against Harold's neck--almost not a kiss but just a breath, an exhalation of warm air above the collar of Harold's shirt, lifting the small hairs at the back of his neck.

Harold drew in a breath to protest--or, not protest, but to say something. Something needed to be said. 

"Don't," John whispered, his voice now so close, more intimately there with him than Harold was used to, though he had grown used to hearing John speaking through the earpiece as though he was a second voice in Harold's head.

And again, a kiss, though this time John's fingers pushed aside his collar, and Harold could not mistake it for anything but a kiss, and because it was so, Harold said nothing, wary of breaking the moment, wondering if his machine could tell him something about John's motives or his own and what the future might bring.

A third kiss. Harold wondered if John was keeping count--if there was a number at which Harold should turn, should offer something back, or say something.

Four, five, six (wherever you are, here I come...) and John was turning him around so that Harold's back was pressed against the glass board and, had Harold found something clever to say, it was quite lost in the heat of the moment.


End file.
